


Sick days

by ShariDeschain



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Flash Fic Collection, Gen, Sickfic, completely useless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 07:16:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13266432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShariDeschain/pseuds/ShariDeschain
Summary: Collection of tumblr prompts.





	1. “I’m not feeling all that great” - Tim&Bruce

Over the years Bruce’s been accused by almost all of his kids of being a cruel, heartless jerk - _but only sometimes, of course,_ the kindest of them would add when the argument popped up. 

In his humble opinion, the ultimate proof that he’s nothing of the sort is lying at this very moment right before his eyes.

“Tim.”

“Mmmh?”

Bruce stares at the soaking wet form of the boy who’s currently leaning against the glass wall of the shower. He takes in the red nose and the puffy eyes and how Tim’s still half in costume despite being already under a jet of boiling water. His bo staff is in there too, Bruce notices.

And if he actually were the cruel jerk they made him to be, then right now he’d be taking photos and sending them to his other kids, instead of trying to save Tim from the humiliation of being found like this by Damian or Dick. _They_ would use it. Bruce is actually a good person, and he’s going to remind that to Tim later.

“You should undress before taking a shower”, he says now, allowing his voice to take a slightly amused inflection. It’s not even the strangest or the most obvious statement he’s ever been forced to say in front of one of his sons, it just happen to be the first of the night

“It’s warm here”, Tim mutters in response.

“It’s also warm out of the shower.”

“Lies.”

“Dick is going to bring Damian down here to change for patrol in less than five minutes”, Bruce informs him then, and Tim groans and reluctantly turns off the water.

Bruce watches him with a critical eye while the boy gets off the shower on unsteady feet and sits down on the bench to remove the rest of his clothes. He seems unaware of being dripping water everywhere or of being wet at all, and Bruce has to take a towel and wrap it around his shoulders before Tim looks up at him again in acknowledgment.

“Dad”, he mumbles when Bruce crouches down in front of him to cup his flushed face in one hand. “I’m not feeling all that great.”

He really mustn’t, if he’s calling Bruce _dad_ just like that, but it seems useless to point that out now, or to even bring attention on what is, without a doubt, only a slip of the tongue.

“Okay”, Bruce says instead, and presses his lips to Tim’s forehead. He’s burning hot, and it’s not from the warmth of the shower he just took. “You have a fever”, he confirms.

“You lied. It’s not warm here”, Tim retorts, looking up at him with a pout. “I’m cold now.”

 _That’s because you’re still wet_ , Bruce could answer, but he learned a long time ago not to discuss logic with a feverish Tim.

“Let’s get you dry and then go to bed, okay?”, he asks, but he knows Tim’s not listening to him. He quickly finishes to undress the boy and help him into some dry clothes while Tim just blinks and sways against him, compliant to every movement.

He only protests when Bruce hauls him up into his arms and starts carrying him out of the room.

“I can walk”, he grumbles, swatting him halfheartedly on the shoulder.

“Mmmh”, Bruce answers, noncommittal, but he doesn’t put him down.

“Seriously, Bruce”, Tim insists. “I can walk.”

He swats him again to prove his point, and well, Tim’s not as little and easy to carry as Damian is.

“You were right, Tim. I lied. But not about the shower”, Bruce sighs at last. “Dick and Damian are spending the night in Blüdhaven.”

Tim raises his head from his shoulder and blinks up at him.

“Oh”, it’s the only thing he says for a moment. And then, with more satisfaction than Bruce would like to hear right now: “Knew it.”

But then Tim closes his eyes and relaxes into his hold, still looking very pleased with both himself _and_ \- for some strange reason - Bruce, so the Dark Knight feels less guilty about the little lie.

He’ll only have to be very quick in taking Tim upstairs, he decides. This way no one will have the time to actually take good blackmail photos of the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr prompt](https://unavenged-robin.tumblr.com/post/168899043843/im-loving-your-fics-could-you-please-write-im)


	2. "You okay in there?” -Dick&Damian

There’s a soft knocking at the bathroom door, and Damian growls. Wants to scream _go away_ or _leave me alone_ or a variation of the theme, but he’s too busy trying to keep down what little dinner he managed to eat. Besides, the damn _Batman_ should be perceptive enough to understand when his presence is not required nor welcomed.

“You okay in there?”, Dick asks instead from behind the closed door.

Damian groans again while another retching shakes him to the core. He’s curled up on the rug, burning and freezing at the same time, his eyes are so swollen he can barely keep them open, and he feels like he doesn’t have internal organs anymore, just one, big, aching muscle made of condensed soup. So no, he’s not okay. And the mental image is not helping. At all.

He does his best to resist the urge to throw up for another minute or two, but it’s a losing battle. Eventually he grips the toilet with shaky, sweaty fingers, and surrenders the content of his stomach with a moan that is almost a sigh of relief.

Dick’s bare feet make a slap-like sound on the ceramic tiles, and Damian jumps because he had forgotten that he was there at all. Shame adds to the pain and he only feels the tears when he tastes the salt on his burning lips. He should be better than this. Or he should be better at hiding this, at least.

Dick’s talking now. A quiet, whispered litany of words that Damian doesn’t understand. Then there are hands on him. One under his shirt, rubbing his back, the other pushing back the hair from his forehead. And it’s disgusting, really, what with all the sweat and snot and tears, and the smell of vomit in the air. It’s unhygienic at the very least, and Grayson should not be here to witness to this pathetic show Damian’s doing of himself in the first place, but his hands, _god_ , his hands are _so. cold._ and they feel like nothing short of a blessing against his burning skin.

That’s why Damian doesn’t protest when his brother lifts him up from the floor and tucks him into his lap, or when he starts cleaning him off with a wet and also blessedly cold towel, still talking in that ridiculous voice made for children and scared kittens, surely not for Robin, the son of Batman, heir to the Demon’s Head.

But he’s tired, and even if he usually manages to win at least half of their arguments, he’s learned with time that his mentor can be adamant when some kind of hurt is involved. Besides, this actually feels good, especially when Dick presses a cool hand against his cheek again, gently rubbing Damian’s temple with his thumb.

The soothing litany soon turns into a proper lullaby, and Damian, in one last spasm of consciousness, almost can’t believe the indignity of it. He closes his eyes, snuggles closer to Grayson, and makes a mental note of punching his brother as soon as he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr prompt](https://unavenged-robin.tumblr.com/post/169115332873/congrats-on-hitting-2k-followers-i-dont-know)


	3. "Why is the room spinning?" - Bruce&Dick

Crime doesn’t pay, but sometimes it gets lucky. Lucky enough to bring down the Batman, for example (which, although Bruce doesn't like to admit it, is not such an extraordinary circumstance as he would like) and sometimes even lucky enough to surprise him.

That’s what Bruce feels as he falls on his knees exactly five seconds later he steps out of the Batmobile: surprise. And, for the briefest moment, _fear_.

Not for himself - because god knows he’s forgot what’s like to be afraid for himself somewhere between his first and his second night wearing the costume - but for his children, for Alfred, for his friends. They already had to bury him once, and granted, sooner or later they will have to do it again, and hopefully in a more permanent way next time, but not so soon. _Please, not so soon_ , Bruce thinks. Damian’s still only thirteen years old, he’s too young. And he needs to be in a better place with his other sons before saying goodbye to them. And hadn't Alfred promised that if Bruce ever dared to die again before him he would’ve resigned? He can’t risk that. His kids cannot survive without Alfred, just as Bruce would never have been able to.

Sound of running footsteps, a hand on his shoulder. Bruce could recognize Dick Grayson in the crowd of thousand others: his footsteps, his touch, his breathing, his heartbeat, Bruce knows all of them by heart. He knows those of all his children, but Dick’s were the first ones he’s learned after his own, and Bruce thinks he could maybe forget his own name, his own whole being, but not Dick. Never Dick.

“Batman?”, the voice comes out uncertain, like Dick thought Bruce may be playing a prank on him. Bruce did sometimes, way, way back, when he was younger and still optimistic enough to think that his children could not die, that he would always be there to protect them because that was his job, his mission, his everything. Protect the children, protect the innocents. No more Bruce Wayne in Gotham: that was the promise. 

And then there was a Richard Grayson, and a Jason Todd, a Tim Drake, a Cassandra Cain. A _Damian Wayne_.

 _To fail so miserably_ , Bruce thinks, blind eyes behind the cowl.

“Batman!”, now there’s urgency in Dick’s yell. Good. There’s something Bruce needs to tell him, though. Something important but. Mouth and head both stuffed with cotton. Can’t think, can’t talk. He tries anyway, because fuck it, that’s why.

He grasps at every filament of consciousness that still remains to him, clenching teeth and fists and every muscle that still obeys him.

“Room”, he sighs after a flash of white pain makes him shake on the ground, and someone pushes his cowl backwards for the cold air of the batcave to caress his sweaty face.

Nightwing is yelling now, lots of words without meaning, and his hands are moving all over Bruce’s body, fingers pressing, checking, trying to find what’s wrong and how to fix it. It takes Dick a moment to stop and look down at him.

“What?”, he asks.

Bruce decides that he can put in a little more effort after all.

“Room. Spinning. Why”, he mutters with slow, careful precision, each syllable a snap of the tongue against the palate and yes, that was it, the important thing he had to say to Dick. Well, not in the right order and not with the proper tone, but his boys are all detectives, _damn good_ detectives, and Bruce’s sure they can manage.

When he blacks out, a few seconds later, he’s not afraid anymore.

-

He wakes up to the sight of the familiar ceiling of his bedroom above him and to the noise of the constant beeping of his own electrocardiogram all around. He tilts his head to the side, certain to find the one he is looking for.

“You’re lucky I remembered”, Dick greets him, messed up hair and dark circles under his eyes. “You old, crazy bastard.”

Bruce tries to answer, ends up coughing. Dick sighs and helps him to a glass of water.

“Not lucky”, he retorts as soon as he’s sure he can speak without choking. “I knew- I knew you would remember.”

“There is literally no way you could’ve known that”, Dick objects, and he’s half amused and half pissed off by now. “I was what, nine, ten? Younger than Damian for sure.”

“Nine”, Bruce answers, because he remembers that night all too well. It was the first time he seriously got hurt on patrol with Robin in tow. It had been Ivy’s poison, just like tonight, and Bruce had been taken by surprise and collapsed on his knees in the Batcave, useless and scared for his Robin, just like tonight. In the midst of confusion and fear he’d been able to ask only one, immensely stupid question: _why is the room spinning?_

And Dick, nine-years-old Dick who had been patrolling with him for less than a month, who was already trying to drag him to the med-bay despite Bruce weighing four times what he did, nine-years-old Dick who was trying not to panic himself, had answered, in what Bruce had catalogued as a desperate attempt to reassure him: _because we are on a carousel._

He laughs now as he’d laughed then, and Dick looks at him like he wants to swat him.

“You never let me live that one down”, he complains, but there’s a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth.

“ _Because we are on a carousel_ ”, Bruce repeats, still chuckling (must be the anaesthetics), and this time he does earn himself a swat, although a very gente one.

“Only you could use an inside joke to tell me that you were poisoned with nightshade toxins instead than, _you know_ , actually tell me that you were poisoned with nightshade toxins.”

“Mh”, Bruce hums with a pleased smile, closing his eyes. “But it worked.”

“Yeah, it did”, Dick sighs. “But don’t tell that story to Damian, or next time I won’t save you.”

Bruce snorts and goes to sleep with the feeling of Dick’s hand in his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr prompt](https://unavenged-robin.tumblr.com/post/170508078083/can-you-do-the-why-is-the-room-spinning-prompt)


End file.
